


if we weren't us

by superpol



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bad English, I don't even know anymore, M/M, No Plot, also cursing, bad everything, my prose sucks, nothing pretty, unusual friendship, what even guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superpol/pseuds/superpol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s sad, and if Bahorel were somebody else, he would try to fix Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if we weren't us

**Author's Note:**

> what the fuck is this. (also, unbeta'd. sorry about it, guys)

 

 

When he gets home, Grantaire is sitting at the kitchen table, a mug and a bottle of cheap wine for company. He looks at him with surprise, the creepy light of the fluorescent tube clinging to his cheekbones.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” he asks.

Bahorel sits across from him and smiles.

“Jealous boyfriend,” he answers.

Which is true. Bahorel was a little drunk and flirted with the wrong girl. It wasn’t a total loss, though. The other guy never saw his right hook coming.

There’s a sigh and Grantaire stands up, opening their freezer and searching its contents with paint-stained fingers. Bahorel takes advantage and steals a sip from Grantaire’s mug when he’s not looking.

“Where’s Feuilly?”

Grantaire turns around with a family pack of frozen chicken nuggets (which is sad) and puts it unceremoniously on Bahorel’s face (which fucking hurts).

“Out with Courfeyrac,” Grantaire murmurs. He eyes the pile of clean clothes by the washing machine and grabs a small towel. “They had a meeting or whatever” he continues, now wetting the towel in the sink. Bahorel stares at his back, watching the muscles move under his well-worn hoodie. Grantaire’s hair is an unruly mess, fruit of nervous hands. Okay, then. It’s one of _those_ days.

The sound of a chair scraping the floor disturbs the quiet calm of the apartment. Grantaire sits down again, removes the chicken nuggets pack and takes a look at Bahorel.

“The girl wasn’t worth it,” he hears himself say with a bloody grin.

Grantaire snorts and gently cleans Bahorel’s cheek, nose and split lip. “Yeah, well,” he confesses, “I can see that.”

Bahorel doesn’t mention the alcohol or the fact that Grantaire was sitting here in complete silence. His friend spends too much time on his own, sulking or drinking, or both. Bahorel is pretty sure Grantaire is equal parts whiskey and self-hatred.

His hand ends up on Grantaire’s knee, but they don’t acknowledge it.

“Do you want something to eat?” Grantaire asks before throwing the dirty towel in the sink and placing the frozen pack on Bahorel’s left eye again, “Jehan bought us food.”

Bahorel raises his eyebrows.

“He did?”

Grantaire relaxes in his chair and reaches for his mug. “Yep. It was his good deed of the day, apparently.”

Bahorel watches Grantaire take a long gulp of wine. His thumb caresses the inside seam of Grantaire’s torn jeans and his friend spreads his thighs unconsciously. “I’m not hungry,” he answers, feeling warmth under his hand.

Grantaire looks at him then, his eyes darting to the hand on his knee. Bahorel notices the bags under Grantaire’s eyes, but decides not to comment on it. Bahorel is not good at talking, anyway.

So he takes another path. His hand runs up Grantaire’s thigh and squeezes. “Hey, do you want to... you know,” he whispers, almost intimately. Grantaire’s muscles twitch under Bahorel’s fingers, so Bahorel licks his lips and leans forward, “Nobody’s home but us, and I’m drunk and high on adrenaline.”

Grantaire snorts, but his eyes are dark and his lips look inviting.

“Fuck it,” he shrugs, “why not.”

That’s how Grantaire ends up on his lap, licking at Bahorel’s split lip, frozen pack forgotten on the table. The first time they did this, they blamed it on the alcohol. The second time, they just needed some company. From the third time onwards, they decided not to make any more excuses.

It’s an arrangement between the two of them, and there’s nothing more to it.

“Bedroom,” Grantaire gasps.

Bahorel bites his neck and plays with the hem of his hoodie.

“Wanna go all the way?” he asks.

Grantaire thrusts against him and nods, “Fuck yes, I do.”

He concentrates on maneuvering them to his bedroom instead of dwelling on what’s really going on. Casual sex is to Bahorel a way to relieve tension, no strings attached and enjoyable physical contact without the pain of a fight. But to Grantaire? Well, that’s a whole new level of fucked up.

By the time they reach the bedroom, they are mostly naked. Grantaire is gasping in his ear, while Bahorel bites the line of his throat, the wet sound of lips against skin obscene in the darkness. They push each other until they hit the bed. Grantaire won't let go of his lips and Bahorel finds it difficult to grab what they need from the bedside table. When he finally gets what he’s looking for, he breaks the kiss and smirks. “Ride me,” he commands. Grantaire snorts, but doesn’t pause, taking the bottle of lube and the offered condom.

They don’t moan names while fucking. They may say _shit, Bahorel, stop teasing_ , or _I swear to God, Grantaire, you need to go faster_ , but they never call out names when they come. They prefer to be reduced to primal orders, and begging, and gasps. To his credit, Grantaire doesn’t close his eyes. Bahorel always thought he would, so he could picture somebody else ( _Apollo_ ). Yet, he doesn’t. He looks straight into Bahorel’s eyes, curses falling from his abused mouth.

Today is no different. Grantaire undulates above him, his body like one of these brushstrokes he uses on his paintings. Bahorel watches and orders him around, snapping his hips upwards when he feels like it.

If there’s one thing Bahorel will never confess to anyone is the way Grantaire looks when he comes, beautiful and unguarded. He looks almost as if he’s been hurt, his eyebrows knitted together, and his lips glossy and red. What he thinks of when he comes, Bahorel never asks. He knows, in a way. He knows Grantaire is filled with self-deprecation and unrequited love, and that he will never do anything about it. He knows this is the only thing Grantaire allows himself to have.

It’s sad, and if Bahorel were somebody else, he would try to fix Grantaire. (But he isn’t, and Grantaire will never let him do such a thing)

They take a minute to breathe afterwards, sticky with sweat, semen and other things best left unsaid. Grantaire moves first, as always. He stands up and starts gathering his clothes before Feuilly gets back. If things were different (which they are not and will never be), Bahorel would grab his arm and pull him to lie beside him.

However, he doesn’t.

That’s not the way they deal with things.

Grantaire huffs a humorless laugh in the darkness before disappearing, closing the door on his way out. Bahorel cards a hand through his hair and tries not to think about how his left eye is swelling shut.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i need to learn how to write. i'm terribly sorry for my prose. and for this fic. and for everything tbh.


End file.
